Changing Habits (21 page)

SISTER KATHLEEN

O
n All Saints' Day, a week after Kathleen gave notice that she could no longer work on the church books, she stopped at the rectory to find out if a replacement had been hired. There was information she needed to convey to the new person—if there
was
a new person. Father Sanders had had plenty of time to hire a bookkeeper, but thus far she'd seen no evidence of anyone stepping into her role.

She refused to let him talk her into continuing in the position; a few words of praise and encouragement weren't going to persuade her to stay on.

She carefully rehearsed her speech in case she needed it. Father Doyle had insisted she get out before she became so entangled in the mess that escape would be impossible. She'd taken his advice and spoken to Father Sanders right away. The older priest had pleaded with her to reconsider, but Kathleen had held her ground. She wanted out—and the instant she met Father Yates she was even more sure of it.

Unfortunately Father Sanders was gone when she arrived and, despite his promise the week before, there was no replacement for Kathleen to train. Now she'd have to talk to Father Yates, a prospect that sent shivers of apprehension down her backbone.

As Father Doyle had implied, the new priest was an unpleasant man who seemed to find little in life with which to be happy. He was often harsh and unfriendly toward parishioners. His manner bordered on rude.

He'd been at St. Peter's a little more than a week, and already Kathleen had heard a number of complaints. She didn't think he was a bad priest, just an angry one, and that anger seemed to come in the form of a sharp tongue and judgmental attitude.

“Father Sanders is out?” Kathleen asked the housekeeper in a tentative voice.

Mrs. O'Malley nodded. “I'd disappear myself if I could,” she said. She glanced toward the ceiling and shuddered. In a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “He doesn't like my cooking.”

The housekeeper didn't need to identify whom she meant. “My meatloaf is too salty, my mashed potatoes taste like library glue, and he complained about my pumpkin pie. At lunch today he said he'd tasted better black bean soup out of a can.” Her voice quavered with indignation as she repeated the criticism.

“You're a wonderful cook,” Kathleen told her. The housekeeper made melt-in-your-mouth biscuits and cooked delectable meals for the priests. Her Irish stew rivaled the best Kathleen had ever tasted. Feeding the priests well was Mrs. O'Malley's mission in life, so Father Yates's complaints had deeply wounded her pride.

“Thank you for saying that,” Mrs. O'Malley said, sniffling. “It's a shame, you know, about losing Father Doyle. It won't be the same around here.”

“How's Father Sanders?” Kathleen asked.

The cook met her eyes. “Poorly, I'm afraid,” she said with a sigh.

The message was clear. Father was drinking again, more
than ever. Losing Father Doyle and having to deal with Father Yates had tipped the scales for the priest.

Footsteps could be heard coming from the priests' living quarters. Mrs. O'Malley leapt as if someone had pinched her from behind and hurried back to the kitchen.

Kathleen returned to her small office and sat at the desk, thinking she'd better speak with Father Yates today. She waited for him to acknowledge her. However, he continued down the hallway without as much as a nod in her direction.

After another moment, Kathleen approached him, knocking politely on his office door.

The priest glared up at her from his desk. “Can't this wait?” he asked, frowning.

Kathleen stiffened at his lack of welcome but forged ahead. “I need to speak to you this afternoon. At your convenience, Father.”

Scowl lines marked his otherwise attractive face. “What is it?” he demanded.

“Today's my last day doing the church books,” she said. “I told Father Sanders a week ago that I could no longer continue to teach full-time and do the bookkeeping, too.”

“Overburdened, are you, Sister?”

She detected more than a hint of sarcasm, but chose to ignore it. “When Father Sanders asked me to take on this task, I was told it would be temporary. But apparently the previous bookkeeper has decided…not to return.” The woman had resigned in August, but Kathleen didn't want to expose Father Sanders entirely.

“Now you're walking away as well.”

“I did tell Father Sanders of my intentions two weeks ago. He's had that period of time to hire a replacement.”

The other priest refused to look at her. “Which he hasn't done, now has he?”

“I…I wouldn't know.”

“Fine, you can be on your way.”

“Thank you.” Relief rushed through her. But when Kathleen turned to leave, he stopped her.

“To be honest, Sister, it doesn't surprise me that you've quit.”

She made no comment but clasped her hands in front of her as he continued to write.

“As it happens, I had a chance to go over the books this morning,” he said. “I don't suppose you know of my own bookkeeping background?”

Kathleen froze. He must have noticed the discrepancies between the donations and the deposits. She'd hoped that with Father Doyle making up the difference, the matter would settle itself.

“There appear to be a number of small…
deliberate
errors.”

Kathleen didn't agree or disagree.

He glanced up and met her eyes before she had a chance to lower her own. In those brief seconds, Kathleen read his contempt. He was about to say more when the rectory door opened and in strolled Father Sanders.

The priest staggered a couple of steps, then paused in the office doorway. She could smell the liquor on him and immediately noticed his unfocused gaze.

“I'm happy to see you, Father,” the other priest said with open disgust. “You're just in time for this rather unfortunate discussion with Sister Kathleen. As you know, she's chosen to give up the bookkeeping.”

“Fine job she's done, too,” Father Sanders said approvingly.

“I disagree, Father.”

“There's a problem?” Father Sanders sounded shocked. As though he found it difficult to remain standing, he leaned against the doorjamb. The stench of liquor seemed to permeate the office; she was sure Father Yates smelled it, too.

The new priest sat back in his chair. “Your silence
doesn't do you credit, Sister Kathleen.” He waited, obviously expecting her to speak. She didn't defend herself and wouldn't.

“I believe you owe this parish an explanation.”

Her head lowered, Kathleen bit her tongue to keep from defending her actions. She had done nothing wrong. If there
was
a crime, it was in not reporting the shortfalls to the bishop. Little good
that
would have done her, she reasoned sadly. Father Doyle had tried, and look where it had gotten him.

“I don't know what possessed Father Sanders to ask you to work here in the first place,” he said, turning his scowl on the older priest. “It was a bad idea from the first.”

How nice to know her efforts were appreciated, Kathleen thought to herself, struggling to hide her irritation. For two months, three and often four times a week, she'd spent hours balancing the church's books, and this tongue-lashing was all the thanks she received.

“Seeing that you have nothing to say, you leave me no option,” Father Yates said in a way that told her this would bring him plea-sure rather than regret. “I'm going to have a talk with Sister Eloise regarding the questionable methods you've employed.”

She nodded, hoping, praying, that Sister Superior would realize she was in an impossible situation. Perhaps it had been wrong to protect the older priest, but she'd followed Father Doyle's lead. His name, however, would not pass her lips. He'd already paid dearly for his efforts to fulfill the bishop's expectations of him and to help Father Sanders.

“May I go now, Father?” she asked her voice small despite her attempt to conceal her reaction.

“By all means,” he said, standing. “You're a disgrace to the good name of St. Bridget's Sisters of the Assumption.”

Kathleen nearly ran out of the rectory, so desperate was she to leave. The afternoon was cold and she was chilled to
the bone by the time she arrived at the convent. She'd barely stepped in the door when Sister Eloise asked to see her.

“Is what Father Yates told me true?” she demanded the moment Kathleen entered her office. Before Kathleen had a chance to reply, she was hit with a second question. “Did you alter the books?”

The answer wasn't easy. Kathleen
had
altered the books, but only slightly and only to correct the discrepancies once Father Doyle had replaced the missing cash. “I…it isn't as bad as it looks, Sister.”

The older nun was clearly angry. “Is it true you took money for your own purposes and then repaid it at a later date?”

“Absolutely not!” Kathleen cried, aghast that anyone would believe such an outrageous lie.

“That's what Father Yates says happened. He has proof.”

“I'm not the one who took the money,” Kathleen said reluctantly. “I wasn't the one who made the deposits.” The fact that Father Yates had blamed her when he
knew
Father Sanders had done it was shocking to Kathleen. She hadn't expected behavior so…so calculated, so unconscionable, from a priest.

Her defense didn't appear to placate her superior. “Are you telling me you know who did and you said nothing?”

Kathleen nodded.

“This is even worse than I imagined. Father Yates is right. Disciplinary action is necessary. I'm going to sleep on this, Sister, but I think it would be best if you returned to the motherhouse for a period of contemplation to acknowledge your sins.”

Kathleen couldn't take in what she was hearing. “You're sending me away?”

“You've disgraced us, Sister.”

“But…but you haven't heard my side of it.” Tears clogged her throat as she struggled to get the words out.

“Nothing you say will change the fact that you were dishonest in dealing with the church's books. You have ridiculed us all.”

Kathleen opened her mouth to explain, but Sister Eloise was too angry to listen. Dragging Father Doyle's name into this mess would do more harm than good. He was her friend, her confidant and he'd done what he could to protect her. Now she had to return the favor.

Still, the unfairness of the situation was more than Kathleen could endure. “I don't deserve this, Sister.”

The older nun frowned at her. “As I recall, you were certainly eager to accept the job. ‘Practical experience' would benefit you, or so I remember you saying. This is what you wanted. I let you do it against my better judgment. I was not in favor of the idea, but in the spirit of cooperation between the rectory and the convent, I gave in.

“I knew it would end like this, and I blame you, Sister, for your refusal to tame your ego and for surrendering to foolish pride.”

The silence that followed seemed deafening.

“Very well, Sister,” Kathleen whispered.

“You will do without dinner and be ready to leave tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Kathleen left the office and had to find a chair so she could sit down, she was trembling so badly. The shaking didn't seem to abate as she burned with anger and humiliation.

For almost ten years Kathleen had given her life to the church and to God, and
this
was the thanks she'd received. The priests were paid decent salaries but because she'd taken a vow of poverty, as all nuns did, she worked for a pittance. Kathleen taught school, sewed her own clothes, cooked, cleaned and lived a Spartan life. Her reward was loneliness and a variety of thankless tasks. For the first time since she'd
entered the convent, Kathleen began to question the rightness of staying.

That night, unable to sleep, her stomach growling, Kathleen packed a small bag. She could only imagine what the other nuns would say or what they'd be told once she was gone. It would soon be apparent that she was leaving in disgrace.

The doorbell chimed in the distance. Then again, more insistently. Two long peals followed by a burst of short ones.

She didn't know who was on duty, but obviously whoever it was had gone to bed. Since she had yet to disrobe, Kathleen took the task upon herself.

To her surprise, an agitated young man was pacing on the other side of the door.

“How can I help you?” Kathleen asked, opening the door a crack.

“I need to talk to Sister Angelina.”

“I'm sorry, but the sisters have all gone to bed.”

“It's important!”

“I'm sorry,” Kathleen said again. She was sympathetic, but there were strict rules about admitting visitors, and she didn't have any choice. “Come back tomorrow and Sister will speak to you then.”

“No—I have to talk to Sister Angelina now.”

“I'm truly sorry,” she said and without waiting for him to argue further, she closed the door.

SISTER JOANNA

A
t ten, Joanna had another hour to go until the end of her shift and already she was exhausted. Normally she didn't drink coffee this late at night, but she needed a jolt of caffeine to help her adjust to her new schedule. Working in the Emergency Room was exhausting—periods of boredom alternating with bursts of frantic, high-adrenaline activity.

With only a couple of days until the national election, all the talk around the hospital was of Nixon and McGovern.

“McGovern hasn't got a chance,” one of the nurses, Gloria Thompson, said as she added sugar to her coffee.

“Have you checked the price of bread lately?” another complained. “You can thank Nixon for that. He sold our wheat to Russia, and fifty cents for a loaf of bread is the result.” She rolled her eyes and nodded when Joanna strolled past. “Good to have you with us, Sister.”

“Thank you,” she said. It would take time to adjust, not only to this schedule but to the staff. She missed Sylvia Larson, Lois Jenson, Julie and the others.

And she missed Dr. Murray with an ache that refused to leave her. Countless times each day, her mind drifted to him, despite her efforts to discipline her thoughts.

When she'd finished her coffee, she returned to the Emergency Room. It'd been a slow night, with several minor injuries and one serious situation—a teenage girl who'd been brought in by her boyfriend. The girl had apparently been to a backstreet abortionist and was hemorrhaging badly. Dr. Barlow, the attending physician, was working on her while Gloria and two other staff members rushed to meet his demands.

“Sister Joanna,” Dr. Barlow called out when he saw her. “Would you find out what you can from her boyfriend?”

“Right away,” she said. She'd just started toward the waiting room when a tall, solidly built teenage boy came barreling through the swinging doors.

“I want to be with her,” the boy said belligerently. “Let me see her!”

Two orderlies restrained him from advancing farther.

“Will someone shut him up?” Gloria yelled.

“Where are the parents?” one orderly asked.

“Corinne. Corinne! It's going to be all right, baby.” The youth strained against the two men holding him back. “Hang on, Corinne. Hang on.” His young face was twisted with torment as he struggled. When he caught sight of Joanna, he went slack. “Sister! Sister.”

“Can I help?” Joanna asked.

“Get me Sister Angelina,” he pleaded. “Corinne begged me to get her. She needs to talk to her.”

The young man didn't know what he was asking. “That's impossible.”

“That's what the nun at the door said, but Corinne wants to talk to her. Please, Sister. They'll listen to you.”

“You went to the convent?”

The boy nodded, tears brightening his eyes. “Corinne says she has to talk to Sister.” The tears came in earnest now, washing down his pale face. “She was bleeding so much and
she was afraid… I didn't know she was pregnant. I didn't even know.”

The orderlies released him and Joanna took him into a vacant cubicle. The young man collapsed onto a stool and sobbed openly. Joanna laid her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

“She never wanted me to use any protection—she said it was against the Church and Corinne wanted to be a good Catholic.”

Joanna sat with him for several minutes and let him talk. She couldn't imagine how a teenager could rationalize not using birth control and then decide on abortion. How desperate this girl must have been.

“Sister, find out what's happening. I need to know. Please, Sister, please.”

Joanna left him for a moment and learned that Corinne Sullivan had been rushed into surgery in an effort to stop the bleeding.

“It doesn't look good,” Dr. Barlow said as he peeled off his blood-smeared plastic gloves. “She waited too long to get here. Are the parents on their way?”

A knot in her stomach, Joanna nodded. “Admissions called them.”

“Make sure they have privacy when they arrive,” he said, and with sadness in his eyes, he turned away.

Joanna recognized that forlorn, hopeless look. It was too late. Nothing more could be done. She wanted to shout at the injustice of it all, to scream how terrible it was that a girl so young would waste her life. Didn't she realize how precious life was? Hers and that of her unborn child.

About ten minutes later, as Joanna passed the Emergency Admissions desk, a middle-aged couple hurried in, looking shaken and unsure. “I'm Bob Sullivan. Where's our daughter?” the man asked.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan.” The teenage boy went over to Corinne's parents.

“We've been so worried,” Corinne's mother cried. “She didn't come home after school. We've been phoning everyone, and no one knew where she was.”

“None of that matters now, Sharon,” the father said. “For the love of God, tell us what happened!”

“Yes, Jimmy, tell us what happened,” Sharon echoed. “The hospital phoned but they wouldn't give us any details.”

“She was—she was pregnant,” Jimmy said in a faltering voice.

“Pregnant?” Bob Sullivan grabbed the teenage boy by the shirtfront and rammed him against the wall. The boy's feet were suspended two inches from the floor before Joanna could get the older man to release him.

“Shall we discuss this privately?” she said, steering them to an area the hospital had set aside for families. Once inside the room, the parents huddled together on the sofa and Jimmy stood by the door, as though ready to flee. Joanna sat in the remaining chair.

“Is Corinne suffering a miscarriage?” The question was directed to Joanna by the girl's mother.

Joanna shook her head. It was hard to even say the words. “Apparently Corinne decided to…abort the baby.”

The blood drained from the mother's face. “An abortion? Corinne decided to get rid of the baby?”

Joanna nodded reluctantly.

“You arranged this?” the father asked Jimmy, his eyes narrowed and his face reddening.

“No! I swear I didn't know anything about it! Corinne told me she was going to see a friend and had me drop her off at a street corner downtown.”

“You didn't know what she was doing?”

“I didn't have a clue. How could I, when she didn't even
tell me she was pregnant.” He hung his head and his tears dripped onto the tile floor.

“Why would she go to a backstreet abortionist?” Sharon Sullivan asked her husband, wringing her hands in shock. “Why wouldn't she talk to me about this?”

“How did she pay for it?” Bob asked Jimmy.

“I don't know,” he told them. “I don't know anything.”

“She was saving her money for Europe this summer,” Corinne's mother whispered, gripping her husband's hand. “Where is she now?” she asked. “I want to be with her.”

“Corinne's in surgery,” Joanna explained.

“Surgery?” the mother repeated. “She'll be able to have other children, won't she?”

“I don't know,” Joanna told them.

They sat in silence after that. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, the surgeon entered the room. He was dressed in surgical greens, a protective mask hanging around his neck. From the look in his eyes, Joanna knew. The girl was gone. She'd bled to death.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and exhaled sharply.

Corinne's parents and Jimmy stared at him in confusion.

“Sorry?” Sharon Sullivan repeated. “Corinne can't have babies?”

The physician's gaze sought out Joanna's and she saw his regret and his sadness at relaying such horrific news to these parents. “Your daughter died on the operating table,” he said. “We did everything we could.”

A few seconds passed and then came an unearthly wail of anguish and disbelief. Corinne's mother buried her face in her hands and sobbed loudly.

“There's been a mistake. I'm sure this is all a mistake.” Bob Sullivan stood and looked first to the physician and then to Joanna. He clenched his fists at his sides. “Corinne sat at the breakfast table with us this morning. She had a test in her
Health class this afternoon. It was the only thing she talked about—this test was important. Now you're telling me my little girl is
dead?
No. There's been a mistake. Something isn't right. Corinne can't be dead.”

“I'm sorry,” the doctor said again. “She'd lost too much blood. It was too late.”

Jimmy seemed close to shock. “She said I had to take her to Sister Angelina first,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “She should've told me, she should've talked to me about the baby.” Turning away from them, he slammed his fist into the wall. He howled in grief and pain, then collapsed in sobs, huddled in agony on the floor.

Joanna felt tears pricking her eyes, unable to bear witnessing their pain.

“She can't be gone—this can't be happening,” Sharon burst out. “Corinne and I are going to Europe this summer. We've been planning the trip for months.”

“She's only sixteen,” her father said to no one in particular.

“Is there someone I can phone?” the physician asked.

Bob Sullivan looked up as if he hadn't heard. “My baby girl can't be dead. She sat at the breakfast table with us this morning.”

“Sister,” Dr. Johnson whispered. “Perhaps you should call the rectory and ask that one of the priests come down to be with the parents.”

Joanna nodded and wiped the tears from her own cheeks.

“I'll phone Father Sanders,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Sharon Sullivan. If there was any way she could take this pain away from them she would, but that was impossible. Death had struck again like a thief in the night, stealing what was most dear.